


the first gift i would like to receive

by RaisingCaiin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Gondolin, Gondolin AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 01:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: Gondolin has adopted certain customs that Curufin does not recognize.Customs that he wishes to learn more about.





	the first gift i would like to receive

**Author's Note:**

> for erlkoenig, who requested fluff for curufin/turgon and "some stereotypical holiday dressings somehow (mistletoe, snow, decorating, hot chocolate, presents, absurd singing outside at all hours) that would be incredible" 
> 
> i hope you have a wonderful holiday season, bee, and only the best for the new year to come <3333

As his son darts by, followed by a laughing maiden nearly of age, Curufinwë can only sigh. Tyelpe and Itarillë get along remarkably well – better, in fact, than Tyelpe had with any of the other children nearer his own age in Himlad. For this alone Curufinwë would be glad that he, his son, and his brother managed to make their way further north when Himlad fell, finally reaching safety in the fabled city of Gondolin.

He is less sanguine, however, about the fact that Itarillë seems to be imparting strange customs upon his son now that they are here. As becomes evident again when Itarillë taps Tyelpe’s shoulder, laughing, and both children stop running; Itarillë kneels next to Tyelpe and directs his gaze upward, pointing to a glossy green sprig of foliage that has been tied with bright ribbon and hung from the doorway just above their heads. Both cousins laugh, and Tyelpe, blushing a little, plants a smacking kiss on Itarillë’s cheek: a sign of familial affection that the much taller girl returns on Tyelpe’s forehead, even while kneeling. Then she’s rising to her feet once more, and this time Tyelpe taps her on the back of the knee before Itarillë starts running, her characteristic gait from injuries on the Ice not slowing her down in the slightest.

When Curufinwë looks back from the doorway that their children have just dashed through, Turukáno is watching him watching them. And unlike most people Curufinwë has ever caught staring, Turukáno doesn’t immediately look away or pretend that he had been doing something other than observing Curufinwë.

It is – an unusual show of honesty, and Curufinwë, Atar help him, thinks that he might like it.

He would die before he let Turukáno know as much, of course. “Is there something on my face, cousin?”

“Only the usual appendages, so far as I can tell,” Turukáno says mildly, finally directing his attention back to his mug of what even Curufinwë must admit is a decidedly excellent cider. “A nose, two eyes, a mouth, and so on.”

“Someday you will be faced with a question that you cannot sidestep so neatly, _cousin_ , and I hope that I am there to see it.” Curufinwë lifts his own mug of cider in ironic salute: a gesture that Turukáno returns without the irony, smiling gently at him instead.

“And someday perhaps you will be able to accept a compliment or endearment without attempting to rip new holes in the giver’s face, cousin, and I truly hope that I am there to see it too. But until that day dawns, plain facts will have to do, so. Here we are.”

Following this salvo Curufinwë expects an ironic salute to match his own earlier, but Turukáno simply returns to enjoying his drink. And there he sits, sipping away as calmly as if he hasn’t realized that he’s managed to get one over on Curufinwë Atarinkë, fifth son of Fëanáro Finwion. And the infuriating part is that Curufinwë cannot even tell whether his cousin realizes that this is what he has done. _Infuriating._ Turukáno’s gift of defusing often leaves Curufinwë floundering where no one else has ever been able to manage anything close.

Except that Curufinwë doesn’t really flounder, of course. He simply, ah, chooses new and more fruitful subjects of conversation.

“What bizarre rituals has your daughter been attempting to foist upon my son?”

“Mmmm?” Turukáno only looks up when he seems to realize that Curufinwë isn’t actually going to describe said rituals. Then his gaze follows Curufinwë’s accusatory finger up to where Curufinwë is pointing to the glossy green sprig of foliage, hung upside down over the arching doorway. “Oh, the mistletoe? Just a sweet winter ritual that we adopted here.”

 _We_. It could mean the city of Gondolin, the high court of Gondolin, or the family unit of Turukáno and his now-motherless daughter, snug and isolated from both the court and the snow in these rooms atop Gondolin’s tallest edifice, the Tower of the King. But by the fact of Curufinwë’s ignorance of this tradition, he and his son are not included in whatever _we_ it is that Turukáno is describing, and that – that bothers Curufinwë, perhaps more than it should.

“Tell me about this sweet winter ritual, then.” He’d meant for that _sweet_ to sound more sardonic than it actually came out.

“Well.” Turukáno cups his cider and speaks with a growing enthusiasm. “The plant itself is _mistil-_ “ he stumbles a little over the obviously Avarin word- “or mistletoe, and from what I have seen of it, it’s actually a parasitic organism, growing on taller trees and taking its sustenance from them. As far as we can tell, the Avari value it because it remains ever green throughout the winter, and so, tradition goes, any vows or pledges exchanged beneath its aegis also prosper and remain true.”

“Hmmmm.” Superstition, to Curufinwë’s mind, but harmless enough. Still.

“Tyelpe, kiss your cousin on her cheek only,” he calls over his shoulder. “Otherwise, folk of the great court of Gondolin will deem you unseemly.”

There’s no sign that Tyelpe and Itarillë are anywhere within hearing range, but Turukáno raises one eyebrow, quietly amused. “Unseemly? Since when have the children of Fëanáro ever cared for being labeled unseemly?”

“Oh, they never have,” Curufinwë promises absently, setting aside his own cider and standing. “But all the same, it is well that any progeny of Fëanáro or his only makes those choices once they are old enough to understand them. Particularly if they will be held to these choices later, as your mistletoe ritual seems to imply.”

Turukáno is watching him warily as Curufinwë comes to stand before his chair. “I seem to have lost a critical part of your meaning along the way, cousin.”

“I’m hardly surprised, you always were an idiot.” Curufinwë tugs the cider out of Turukáno’s hands and sets it aside. “Well? You’ll have to stand up on your own, great towering stork that you are.”

And stand Turukáno does, unfolding himself out of his comfortable chair to reveal the towering height that never fails to take Curufinwë’s breath away. “And now that I have stood, cousin, what grim fate do you have in store for me?”

“A grim fate indeed,” Curufinwë promises, idly loosening the pins from his hair as he walks away. He shakes out dark locks the very image of his father’s as he goes, and he can feel Turukáno’s eyes hot and intent on his back.

“Well, stork?” he asks absently, coming to a stop beneath the glossy green sprig of foliage. “Have I provided you with enough of a hint now?”

Turukáno joins him slowly, one hand cupping the back of Curufinwë’s head, and leans down to close the distance between them –

and plants a chaste kiss on Curufinwë’s forehead, much like Itarillë had done for Tyelpe.

His teeth grinding ever so slightly, Curufinwë indulges himself by envisioning the entire Tower of the King brought crashing down upon this infuriating man’s head. “Do I look like a boy not yet of age to you, cousin?”

“No,” Turukáno pulls back to say quietly. “But you _do_ look like a man who needs to decide whether he is ready to accept something that we have been dancing about for far too long now.”

“As if you could dance, you ungainly thing,” Curufinwë snaps. As if dancing is the real issue. As if he is not actually petulant that Turukáno and his smile, his _lips_ , all remain that far away.  

“I dance just as well as you receive welcome truths,” Turukáno returns imperturbably, and he finally, _finally,_ begins to lean down a little further.

“I loathe you,” Curufinwe exhales, right against Turukáno’s lips.

“I love you too, Curufinwë.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Curufinwë breathes, finally tugging the king of Gondolin into a far better-placed kiss beneath the glossy mistletoe. And because he is looking up, his eyes rolling back in his head as one of Turukáno’s great warm hands comes to rest on his breast, the last thing that Curufinwë he sees before his eyes fall shut is not Turukáno’s face, but the sprig of greenery that has made this all possible.  


End file.
